


tell you something that you might like to hear

by Did



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Dirty Talk, Light Dom/sub, Light Sadism, M/M, Multi, Pastfic, Resolved Sexual Tension, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unresolved Romantic Tension, he's gay and demi and needs help, king in the streets sub in the sheets, non-human body language and vocalizations, rastakhan needs to conceive an heir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-30 01:34:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16755334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Did/pseuds/Did
Summary: King Rastakhan requires assistance with a delicate matter. Zul is there to help.





	tell you something that you might like to hear

**Author's Note:**

> i may be fudging timelines here! the fact that rastakhan is 200+ years old and has only a single heir who appears to be in her twenties doesn't make a terrible amount of sense to begin with, so this is my handwavey attempt to explain it ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

"Prophet Zul. You and I must speak."

Zul pauses in the act of assembling his reagents, frowning slightly. The blue spirit-light of the ceremonial brazier flickers hungrily, casting eerie shadows on the stone walls of the ritual chamber.

It is not often that trolls dare disturb his preparations. It is not often that this _particular_ troll has cause to speak to him at all.

Zul sets his ritual implements aside and straightens, turning to regard the impassive face and stocky frame of Rastakhan’s chief concubine.

"Harem-mother Lor'na." says Zul, inclining his head slightly. The king’s concubines are seldom seen outside of the royal family's wing of the palace. Zul cannot imagine what has brought Lor’na here to address him personally. “How may I help you?”

Lor'na says nothing, but glances significantly towards the chamber’s doorway. Zul nods. Both of them know well the importance of discretion, though they come at it by different angles.

Once they are safely ensconced in a side-chamber inaccessible to Yazma's spying pests, Lor'na wastes no time in getting to the point.

"You are aware, of course, that the king prefers the company of men."

Zul's expression does not change, but he does go very, very still.

Zul was not, in fact, aware of this.

A long, silent moment passes. Lor'na raises her brow-ridges.

"Ah. I see." Her tone has taken on a distinctly skeptical quality. "And here I thought you were supposed to know about everything that happens in Zuldazar."

"Rumors of my omniscience be greatly exaggerated." replies Zul flatly. "Why should this be any concern of mine?"

This information is of _utmost_ concern to Zul. For reasons he does not care to examine too closely, Zul knows without a doubt that he will think of little else for months to come.

"We have found that the king struggles to _perform_." says Lor'na bluntly. "His ability to produce an heir is in question."

Zul's brow-ridges climb so high on his face they nearly brush the rim of his headdress.

That the king should enjoy the company of men should come as no great surprise; most trolls enjoy a few years of dalliance before settling into a life of work or marriage. That the king should prefer men _exclusively_ , to the point that it is interfering with his royal duties, is- a fact that Zul struggles to reconcile with all else that he knows of Rastakhan. The information sits in front of him like pieces of a puzzle that refuse to slot together.

Zul gathers his composure, feeling as though he is being tested. "The king's _performance_ is not within my purview as royal prophet. Perhaps you should instead consult the royal physician."

"It is not the _royal physician's_ name that Rastakhan cries out at the moment of completion."

Zul is not often surprised. Zul is not surprised now, because 'surprise' would imply a level of comprehension that Zul currently lacks. What Lor’na has just suggested is an absurdity that Zul’s mind flatly refuses to acknowledge.

“ _...what_ did you just say?” says Zul slowly, unconsciously slipping into the same foreboding tone he uses to discipline an out-of-line apprentice. _I am giving you one chance to reconsider your words; use it wisely._

Lor’na appears unmoved. “My apologies, Honored Prophet. I should have been more specific. My women have made many attempts to help the king overcome his difficulties. We have many techniques and devices at our disposal; in his case they are insufficient. On the rare occasions that the king achieves climax, it is with your name on his lips, usually while one of us fucks him from behind-”

“That is _enough._ ” Zul hastily banishes _that_ mental image with the same impatient mental flick he uses to dismiss an unwanted vision, already knowing that it will return to haunt him. Lor’na favors him with an infuriatingly superior look.

“If we continue in this fashion it will be years before he sires a child out of any of us.” A ghost of a smile crosses her lips. “It has also, if you’ll excuse my saying so, been hell on my girls’ morale.”

“How inconvenient for you.” says Zul dryly. He gives in to the urge to rub his temples. “I believe I see now what you are about to propose. Even so, I ask that you speak plainly.”

“Very well. I _propose_ that you come to the harem tomorrow evening. I propose that you hold the king, and speak filth into his ear, and perhaps even fuck him, if you are so inclined, while one of my women sits on his cock. I propose that you continue to so until he puts a child into her and secures his dynasty.”

Zul opens his mouth and finds himself quite unable to speak. Lor’na gives him a piercing look.

“Unless you would prefer to allow the kingdom to fall to ruin through your own inaction?”

 _That_ future will never come to pass, Zul knows immediately and with bone-deep certainty. He knows this because there is not a single timeline in which he refuses Lor’na’s request.

Zul schools his expression and turns away. “I will come. Leave me now; I have things I must do.”

It is a dismissal unbefitting of Lor’na’s station, but she does not challenge it. Zul can hear the smirk in her words as she bids him farewell.

Zul returns to his work. The mystic light of the ritual brazier has faded back to a mundane yellow-orange. He will need to start his preparations over from the beginning.

 _Great spirits._ Zul needs a drink.

 

* * *

 

Zul spends the following night and day in a state of unparallelled distraction. Thoughts of the task that lies before him beleaguer him like the whispers of a malignant spirit, undeterred by his most strenuous attempts at mental discipline.

They haunt him as he sleeps, taking his already troubled dreams to dark, strange places that induce him to wake up moist with sweat and- _other_ things.

They haunt him as he reads the entrails of a sacrificed saurid, trying and failing to search for portents while the words _your name on his lips, your name on his lips, your name on his lips_ echo endlessly in his ears.

They haunt him as he gives instruction to his acolytes. The third time Zul catches a junior priest shooting him surreptitious looks of concern Zul unceremoniously cancels the day’s lecture and spends the rest of the day in his quarters, deep in meditation.

Zul is still not entirely convinced that Lor’na’s _proposal_ is not an elaborate practical joke of some description. It has been decades since any troll has dared mock Zul in such a way, but stranger things have happened. He attempts to amuse himself by considering exactly what sort of revenge he will take if this proves to be the case, but his train of thought always leads inevitably, inexorably back to...the subject at hand.

Zul’s thoughts keep offering him _suggestions._ A great many suggestions. Constantly and without his consent. For each vision of filth he dismisses, two more rise in its place. Never in Zul’s life has he been so preoccupied with matters of the flesh. The experience reminds him uncomfortably of his teenage years.

When sunset comes it is nearly a relief to leave his quarters and make his way towards the royal harem. Zul wonders briefly if he will struggle to locate it; he is aware of its location in theory moreso than in practice.

He need not have worried. It is the door that Zolani and Habutu are standing guard outside of.

They nod at him with perfect neutral professionalism as he approaches. Zul returns the gesture coolly and stalks past them without a word. He can feel their eyes on the back of his head as he pulls the curtain aside and enters.

It takes Zul's eyes a moment to adjust to the dimly-lit antechamber. Near the doorway lounges a young concubine clad in a simple tunic and waist-wrap, fiddling with what appears to be some sort of hand-held puzzle cube.

She is, Zul can't help but notice, lean, angular, and of a pale olive complexion. Were it not for her age she could almost be Zul's twin. How curious.

When she notices him she breaks into a wide smile and springs immediately to her feet.

"Ah! There is my handsome doppelganger!" she exclaims, confirming Zul's suspicions. Zul does not consider himself _handsome_ by any stretch of imagination, but he finds that he does not mind hearing it said. He allows her to clasp his hand. “Welcome to our harem! It is an pleasure to finally meet you, Prophet Zul.”

“Likewise.” he says, with only a slight hint of sarcasm. “And you are..?”

“I am Janna! And sometimes I am you, when it pleases the king. But not tonight, eh?” Janna waggles her brows in a manner that Zul finds frankly unprofessional. She makes a motion as though she is about to elbow Zul in the ribs, sees Zul’s expression, and apparently thinks better of it.

So now Zul has a face to connect to the phrase _while one of us fucks him from behind._ Delightful.

“...indeed. On that subject, there were some matters I wished to discuss, before-”

“Oh, you are nervous?” she says, her tone perfectly innocent. Zul refuses to dignify _that_ with a response. “There is no need to be! Just show ol’ Rastakhan a little teeth and he will be purring in your hands in no time. You are inclined to be forceful, yes?"

 _Loa have mercy._ The less said about Zul's _inclinations_ the better. This girl already looks like she knows too much.

“That is not what I meant.” says Zul, feeling uncharacteristically out of his depth. He does not care for the sensation. “I only wanted to clarify something. If the king needs-”

Try as he might, Zul's lips will not form the word 'cock'. Janna spares him the indignity of searching for an alternate phrasing.

"We are not stupid, prophet! Some among our number are changed women. If all the king desired was to be fucked by a real cock we would not be having this conversation."

"Ah." says Zul. "...finicky, isn't he."

"He is a king. It is his right." she says, shrugging carelessly. “We have tried a few men as well, but we have had little success. Besides, the Harem-mother does not like allowing a parade of strange men into her realm. She says it is an insult to the sanctity of this place.”

Zul raises his brows. “And my presence is not?”

“Your _presence_ , as you put it, is something that the king desires very, very much. So long as this is true you will always be welcome here.”

Zul does not know whether he finds that flattering or terrifying.

“And it is your belief that I will be able to succeed where all others have failed.” says Zul, unable to keep a sardonic note from creeping into his voice.

Zul’s expression must have been more transparent than he intended. The look Janna gives him is a little too kindly for his comfort. “Would you like some advice, prophet?”

Zul swallows his pride. “...I would not turn it down, if you choose to offer it.”

The next ten minutes of conversation are _enormously_ enlightening.

 

* * *

 

By the time Janna has finished imparting to Zul a number of _incredibly detailed and specific_ facts about Rastakhan, Zul’s mouth is dry and his inner ears feel distinctly hot. He would like to think that he has weathered her explanation with admirable composure, but something about the impish quality of Janna’s grin makes him suspect that this is not the case.

He is spared the necessity of formulating a response when the sound of a sharp voice echoes down an adjacent hall.

 _"You presume to tell_ **_me_ ** _what to do? In my own harem?"_

Zul's ears swivel forward with reluctant interest. Janna makes a shushing gesture and silently urges him forward. Zul allows himself to be ushered along, feeling absurdly as though he is a young apprentice again, gossiping and eavesdropping at doorways.

 _"You know that is not that I meant, Lor'na!"_ Rastakhan's voice sounds rough with frustration. _"I am just not sure that this is_ **_necessary_ ** _-"_

Zul detects the distinctive sound of someone's ear getting flicked. His own ear twinges with sympathy.

 _"You think you are the first pillow-biter to sit on that throne,_ boy?"That is certainly news to Zul. _"My line has been getting heirs out of stubborn kings and queens for generations. All we ask is that you let us_ **_do our jobs._** "

 _“But surely it need not be_ **_him?_  **"Zul’s stomach clenches. _“Perhaps if we tried another device-”_

_"Such attempts degrade us all! You are not a stud animal, and we are not your handlers. I would have you conceive your heir like a civilized troll, not a bull direhorn in the breeding pens."_

Rastakhan barks a humorless laugh. _"You have an interesting definition of ‘civilized’._ _You are also quick to assume that he will accept. I have observed him for many years; to my knowledge he has never shown interest in anyone at all.”_

 _“Perhaps you would have had more success if you did more than_ **_observe._ ** _As a matter of fact, I have already asked him; you may trust me when I say that he is certainly interested. I have never seen a troll turn so red.”_

Zul heavily resents the direction that this conversation is taking. He did not ask to be cursed with such a pale complexion.

_“You have asked him? He is coming here? When?!”_

To Zul’s astonishment, a note of what almost sounds like _panic_ has entered Rastakhan’s voice. Zul wonders at his own capacity to induce such a reaction. He has seen the king face down hulking dire-trolls and charging devilsaurs without so much as a flinch; the idea that the mere mention of Zul could so unnerve him is a revelation.

_“He would be here already if he were punctual. If he delays much longer I may have to send Janna to fetch him-”_

Janna chooses this moment to cast the doorway’s curtain aside, beaming like the sun. “My king! I have brought you a present!”

She indicates Zul with a flourish; Zul proceeds smoothly into the chamber, refusing to show any sign of hesitation. He appraises the scene before him with a critical eye and steadfastly ignores the way Rastakhan gapes at him.

If Zul had to pick a word to describe this place, he would, to his surprise, choose _cozy_. The gently glowing braziers and many scattered pillows and feather-beds put Zul more in mind of a noble’s luxurious sleeping chambers than a den of carnal delights; it is certainly a far cry from what Zul had initially envisioned upon hearing the word _harem_. The only nod to sexuality that Zul can see is a grinning fertility idol standing sentinel in the corner, its stone bosom and erect phallus worn smooth from decades of polishing. A few sticks of fragrant incense smolder in the offering bowl at its feet.

Concubines are scattered about in varying stages of undress, but their bare breasts and airy, loose-fitting clothing seem more suggestive of comfort than eroticism. Rastakhan’s obvious discomfiture aside, the relaxed postures of his concubines remind Zul of the easy camaraderie of a bath house. It feels like a place designed to set one’s mind at ease.

Some of the concubines are looking curiously at Zul; others appear to be very pointedly minding their own business in the face of the argument that was occurring a moment prior. The harem-mother stands with crossed arms, giving Zul an expectant look. Zul spots a few more women who resemble Janna.

Zul’s gaze finally arrives at Rastakhan, standing before him in a state of glorious nudity. It is taking all of Zul’s mental energy to prevent him from focusing on that fact and that fact alone. Rastakhan is one of the largest trolls Zul has ever known, and everything about him, it seems, is _proportional_.

Rastakhan, in contrast to his concubines, is anything but relaxed. He appears to be a hair’s breadth away from assuming a battle stance. Zul dearly hopes that Rastakhan does not intend to strike him. It would be a tragedy to be sent to the infirmary before he has the chance to put his hands on those muscles.

They face off for one tense moment. Zul gets the distinct impression that Rastakhan is sizing him up, which is ridiculous; it does not take future vision to know that the outcome of any altercation between them is a foregone conclusion.

Rastakhan attempts to break the silence. “Zul, I-”

"For _years?"_ Zul interrupts him without hesitation. The words burst from him as if they refuse to be contained for a single second longer. A shade of anger creeps into his voice; his chest thrums with it, a deep, resonant note. Rastakhan’s eyes widen.

Something within Zul seems to snap. He finds himself slipping reflexively into a threat display, his ears straining forward, his pupils narrowed to slits, his lips drawn back over his teeth. He feels every hair along his spine bristle under his clothing. _"You would have allowed me to bend you over_ **_years ago_ ** _and_ **_you never saw fit to inform me of this fact?_** ** _"_**

Rastakhan's eyes are now very, very wide indeed. His ears drop so low the tips of them nearly brush his shoulders. "...oh."

_“Indeed.”_

Zul, hardly realizing what he is doing, takes a step forward. Rastakhan takes a corresponding step back, raising his hands in appeasement. The sight of Rastakhan yielding to Zul on any level goes to Zul’s head like strong drink.

Emboldened, Zul places both hands on Rastakhan’s warm, firm chest and shoves him with all his might towards the nearest bed. The effect ought to be that of a jungle lemur trying to shove down a tree, but Rastakhan topples back so easily that Zul’s blood _sings_ with savage glee.

A warlord of old, conquering a new land, could not have been more satisfied than Zul at this moment, watching God King Rastakhan go belly-up for him.

(Someone, somewhere whistles appreciatively.)

Zul cannot possibly avoid noticing that certain parts of the king seem equally pleased with this development. If Zul had any lingering doubts about Rastakhan’s inclinations, they are now dispelled.

He may not be an expert on this subject, but Zul is reasonably certain that most trolls do not go to half-mast over nothing more than a snarl and a shove.

Zul crosses the distance between them as though physically pulled, ripping his cumbersome golden headdress from his head and tossing it aside. He climbs atop the king and straddles his hips like it is the most natural thing in the world for him to do.

Rastakhan turns his face aside, baring his throat in a wanton display of submission. The sight is shocking in its indecency. It makes Zul want to shield Rastakhan from the gathered onlookers. It makes Zul want to put teeth into his throat until he begs for mercy.

For once, Zul does not restrain himself. He presses his face into the junction of Rastakhan’s neck and shoulder, careful to angle his head in such a way that he does not gore the king with his tusks. He inhales slowly, savoring the king’s scent, savoring the way he shivers.

Even in this tender area Zul finds Rastakhan's skin preternaturally tough. He is obliged to bite down with all the force he can muster to break it. The sensation of blood blooming under his tongue is an immensely satisfying reward.

The king seems to think so as well, judging by the way he sighs and arches against Zul. Rastakhan is fully erect now; the sensation of his bare cock pressing against Zul’s clothed one sends an electric jolt down Zul’s spine that makes him fervently grateful for the barrier of his loincloth. He has spent the entire day and most of the previous night in a low simmer of arousal. Now that he is _finally_ here he would sooner die than embarrass himself so early in the proceedings.

Zul applies himself to the task of exploring Rastakhan’s body with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. He leaves a constellation of bloody bite marks scattered across Rastakhan’s neck and shoulders, taking care to rend the flesh deeply enough that even Rastakhan’s prodigious healing abilities cannot quickly undo his work. He presses his palms against the firm mounds of Rastakhan’s pectoral muscles, then rakes his nails over them. He pinches one of Rastakhan’s dark gray nipples between his thumb and forefinger and twists with considerable force.

He does all of this with Rastakhan purring and squirming and grinding beneath him, rumbling encouragement as though all of Zul’s best efforts to chew through his royal hide are nothing more than a lover’s caress.

It makes Zul wonder just what, exactly, it would take to _hurt_ this man.

It makes Zul want to find out.

Zul muses over this matter as he proceeds downward to the rippled plane of Rastakhan's abdomen, scratching gently against the smooth fur he finds there. To Zul's surprise, Rastakhan's abdominal muscles immediately convulse, his belly going nearly concave under Zul's hand.

Intrigued, Zul repeats the experiment. Rastakhan rewards him with a full-body jerk and a sound that falls somewhere between a growl and a hiccup. His hands, previously fisted in the bedsheets, spring up as though he is preparing to bat Zul away.

"Behave yourself, Zul." warns Rastakhan, his voice curiously strangled.

Zul obediently relocates his hand, filing this fascinating new piece of information away for later consideration. Rastakhan narrows his eyes.

"You may stop smirking now." says Rastakhan, in a low, dangerous tone that does absolutely nothing to alleviate the problem.

"I am doing no such thing." Zul lies primly.

"As your king I order you to cease smirking at once."

Zul is not smirking now; he is grinning. He does not realize he is doing so until he registers that Rastakhan’s expression has shifted abruptly from annoyance to wonderment. Zul hastily schools his expression.

“My apologies, my king.” he says, keeping his voice steady with a great effort of will. “I did not realize your stomach is the only part of you that is not as tough as direhorn leather.”

Rastakhan hums with disagreement. “There are a few other parts.” he says, rolling his hips up against Zul in a way that makes Zul’s breath stutter.

“All in good time, my king.”

Rastakhan relaxes back against the bedsheets, apparently utterly content to put himself in Zul’s hands. The sight of Rastakhan pliant and trusting is somehow even more distracting than the sight of him panting and writhing. Something about the gentle set of his brow, the slow ooze of blood from his wounds, ties Zul’s guts into knots.

Zul leans forward, intending to return to Rastakhan’s neck - Zul is discovering that he has something of a _preoccupation_ with it - and is startled when Rastakhan does not immediately grant him access. The king instead tilts his head in what is unmistakably an invitation to _nuzzle._ He does do slowly, uncertainly, as though he is giving Zul ample opportunity to deny him.

Zul has never willingly denied the king anything, and he is not about to start now.

Gestures of affection between two male trolls tend to involve many awkward negotiations of noses and tusks. Zul does not have an abundance of experience in this area, but he is exceptionally motivated to be a quick learner. He carefully arranges himself in a manner that allows their foreheads to touch, their lips to brush; Rastakhan’s chest thrums with such satisfaction that his whole body seems to vibrate with it.

The sound carries a curious echo. It takes Zul a moment to realize that he himself is the source of it.

Never in Zul’s life has he produced such a sound.

Today has truly been a day of discovery.

Soon they are pressed bodily against one another, hips rocking, panting and growling into each other’s mouths. Zul sinks his teeth into Rastakhan’s lower lip. Rastakhan’s hand cups the back of Zul’s head, stroking his hair, fondling his ears. It is like a scene from a dream; Zul can only hope that it will not end with Zul waking up sticky and ashamed in his own bed, as is usually the case with such dreams.

Eventually Zul feels Rastakhan begin to tense beneath him. "Ah...Zul?"

Zul has heard the king say his name thousands of times throughout the years. Something about hearing it said in _this_ particular context is inexplicably thrilling.

"Zul." says Rastakhan again, sounding slightly more urgent. "Zul, please- wait a moment!”

Zul likes the sound of 'please' even more, coming from Rastakhan. It takes him a second to register the rest of the sentence.

 _“What is it.”_ Zul’s tone makes it clear that there had _better_ be a good reason for this interruption. Seeing Rastakhan avert his eyes in response is a balm to his disgruntled soul.

Zul has always taken for granted that Rastakhan is the most self-assured troll in Zandalar. To see him do anything that could be described as _bashful_ is a novelty that Zul will not soon tire of.

"...I believe we should call one of the girls over.”

Zul grumbles and sits up, hungrily taking in the welcome sight of Rastakhan spread out beneath him like a half-eaten feast. The king is bitten and bruised and exceedingly aroused; his cock stands flushed and slick between them, twitching, a string of precome connecting it to a shiny stain marring the front of Zul’s loincloth. Rastakhan is visibly holding himself back from the brink.

“Ah.” says Zul. “I see.”

Zul is tempted, so very, very tempted, to lower his head and lick away the bead of fluid quivering at the head of Rastakhan's cock. The thought alone is enough to make his mouth water. Unfortunately, he is not particularly eager to discover what the Harem-mother will do if he is responsible for the king making a mess of himself.

Another time, perhaps.

"Sit up." growls Zul. He dismounts reluctantly and moves aside, stealing one last lingering caress of Rastakhan’s magnificent pectoral muscles as he goes.

Zul may be somewhat lacking in sexual experience, but managerial experience he has in spades. The commanding tone that makes servants and apprentices jump to attention seems to work equally well on the king.

Possibly too well, judging by the way Rastakhan bites his lip and exhales a long, shaky breath as he gingerly obeys.

Oh. Zul will remember that.

Zul takes up position behind Rastakhan, placing hands on the king’s scale-spotted shoulders and imperiously steering him to settle back against Zul’s chest. The sensation of Rastakhan leaning into Zul’s embrace, warm and heavy, is captivating in an entirely different way from the sensation of Rastakhan lying supine beneath him. It fills Zul with an utterly disturbing urge to squeeze Rastakhan tight and trill affection at him.

Instead he reaches around and firmly grasps Rastakhan’s cock, thoroughly enjoying the muffled choking noise that he receives in response.

“And which of you will have the honor of assisting me today?” says Zul, surveying the assembled concubines archly. The phrase comes easily to him; it is one he often uses on his apprentices. A few of the concubines laugh.

“Oh! That would be me!” Janna all but prances across the room to join them. Zul finds that he cannot fault her enthusiasm, even as he is forced to swallow down an irrational rush of possessiveness.

Janna straddles Rastakhan’s hips, beaming, and bumps foreheads with him cheerfully. “It is good to see you having fun, my king.”

“I - ah - always have fun here,” Rastakhan protests weakly, his head tipping back as Janna guides him into position. Zul observes with keen interest over Rastakhan’s shoulder. “Just...not quite this much fun.”

The oblique praise swells Zul’s pride more than he is willing to admit. Other parts of Zul are also feeling distinctly swollen at present. The enthralling sight of Rastakhan’s considerable girth stretching Janna wider and wider as she sinks slowly down makes Zul’s cock jump and strain within the confines of his loin-wrap.

 _Merciful spirits._ Zul wonders if he himself could bear it. Zul wonders if he _cares_. Given the opportunity, Zul feels as though he would be happy to die in the attempt.

“And it looks like someone else is having fun as well!” says Janna, giving him a look that suggests that she is perfectly aware of the direction of Zul’s thoughts. “Have you tried the thing with his ears, Prophet?”

“You two will kill me.” Rastakhan murmurs fervently. His eyes flutter closed.

Ah. Yes. Zul has a job to do.

Zul hums thoughtfully, nestling his nose against the curve of Rastakhan’s ear. He exhales a warm breath; Rastakhan bucks upward. Janna obligingly begins to roll her hips, quickly establishing a rhythm with the ease of long experience.

“I have heard,” says Zul, speaking low and leisurely, “that it pleases you to imagine me fucking you.”

Rastakhan makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. He turns his face ever so slightly away, and Zul suspects that his next squirm is not _entirely_ due to arousal.

Oh, he is _delicious_ when he is embarrassed. Zul can think of no better repayment for his many years of taunting Zul with a smile, with a laugh, with a casual flex of his muscles.

“Ah...Zul…”

Zul is in an excellent position to note that Rastakhan’s inner ears are turning a delightful shade of maroon. Zul wants to eat him _alive._

“ _Answer me._ ” Zul puts a warning into his words; this time Rastakhan shudders. Zul has never felt so powerful.

“Yes.” gasps Rastakhan. This is entirely insufficient. Zul rumbles forebodingly at him until he elaborates. “I...I have done so many times.”

Zul’s growl takes on an approving cadence.

“And why, exactly, do you feel the need to do this?” Zul applies his lips to the rim of Rastakhan’s ear, and then his teeth; he bites a notch into the tough cartilage, smiling at Rastakhan’s sharp inhalation, and runs his tongue slowly over the blood that wells up.

“Ah - is it not obvious?” Rastakhan chuckles, making what seems to be a valiant attempt at asserting some amount of control over this conversation. If that is his goal, he has most certainly chosen the wrong tactic. The small shiver of nervousness buried in his words draws Zul’s attention like a shark to blood.

“I would hear it from your lips.” Zul’s tone brooks no argument. His hands venture downwards, squeezing the taut muscles of the king’s thighs.

Rastakhan mumbles something indistinct, the slur of his words merging incomprehensibly with the purr bubbling up from his chest and the obscene sound of flesh sliding against flesh. It is possible that he is too close to his peak to string a sentence together, but Zul thinks otherwise.

Oh, Zul can hardly _stand it._ Rastakhan’s self-consciousness, his sense of wounded pride, is driving him to absolute distraction. If only Zul had known sooner that this is all it would take to pierce the king’s invincible composure; he would have pushed Rastakhan against a wall and growled obscenities at him decades ago.

There is a wonderful irony in it, muses Zul. Rastakhan is more rattled by words in his ear than teeth in his throat. The king is full of contradictions.

“Is it true, my king,” says Zul, as though he is considering the idea for the very first time, “that thinking of me helps you _come?”_

The way Rastakhan twitches at the word _come_ makes Zul feel very smug indeed.

“Yes,” breathes Rastakhan, his voice rough.

_“Speak louder.”_

“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!” Rastakhan bursts out, nearly begging. “Only you, for years it has only been you-”

Now _that_ is what Zul wants to hear.

“For _years,”_ Zul interrupts, emphasizing the bite of his words with a hard press of his nails into Rastakhan’s thighs, “you have sat high and mighty on that throne, watching me jump to do your bidding, knowing that when the day was through you would come to this place and _fantasize about me fucking you.”_

“To be fair,” says Rastakhan breathlessly, “this is - ah - far from the only place where I have had that fantasy.”

The flood of imagery suggested by _that_ admission hits Zul like a punch to the gut. He restrains himself from immediately demanding a detailed accounting of every such instance.

“Do you think of me when you are alone?” he presses, fascinated. “Lying in your royal bed, your hand on your royal cock, thinking about your _loyal Prophet Zul…”_

That, it seems, is what finally does it. Rastakhan arches with a strangled cry, his tense, quivering form shining with sweat in the firelight like an exquisite piece of statuary. Zul purrs into Rastakhan’s neck, cups his hand around the base of his cock, feels how it jumps and pulses as the king finally finds his release.

Zul takes that as an affirmative.

Rastakhan collapses back against Zul, suddenly boneless; the abrupt return of the king’s full weight knocks Zul back flat against the mattress. Janna withdraws from Rastakhan with a wet sound and a hum of approval.

“Ah! I am sure that was a new record.” she says, sounding genuinely impressed. “I’ve never seen anyone push ol’ Rastakhan off the cliff so fast! You are a natural, Prophet Zul.”

“Is that so? Perhaps I have been in the wrong line of work all this time.” wheezes Zul, feeling as though he is being slowly crushed. Certain parts of Zul are very much enjoying being trapped beneath the king’s bulk, but he is having some difficulty breathing.

Janna takes pity on him. She grabs one of Rastakhan’s tusks and pulls, heaving back with all her weight; the king does not budge an inch. “Move, you big oaf! You will squish him flat as a tortilla!”

Rastakhan makes a perfunctory groan of protest, then rolls aside. Zul sighs with mingled relief and disappointment.

“My thanks.” he says, pushing himself back into a sitting position. Zul blinks dazedly around the room, feeling as though he has just emerged from a vision. A great many concubines gaze back at him, their faces painted in varying shades of amusement and admiration. Zul raises his brows loftily and refuses to let their knowing stares unnerve him.

Zul makes eye contact with Harem-Mother Lor’na, who appears to be making notes of some sort on a long roll of parchment. Notes about _what,_ Zul is not sure he wants to know. She gives him a benevolent smile.

“You have done admirable work, Prophet Zul. You required less coaxing than I anticipated. It is nice to see a man with some _initiative."_

"Too much initiative!” chimes another concubine, a tall woman with a tiger tattoo spiralling up one of her muscular arms. "You couldn't keep your hands off him just a bit longer, Prophet? My money was on two minutes; you pounced him down after twenty seconds!"

Someone else whistles with appreciation. “You mauled him up good, mon! He looks like he’s been raptor-wrestling!”

“Ha! Someone likes his meat rare and bloody, eh?”

Rastakhan cracks his eyes open and gazes up at Zul with a long-suffering expression. “Now you see what I must put up with.” Something about the warm note of fond exasperation in his voice fills Zul with a rush of envy so sudden and desperate it takes his breath away. Zul casts that thought aside like a rancid dead thing.

“As always, I am happy to be of service.” he says smoothly, pretending not to notice the way Rastakhan chokes with laughter. Zul has spoken this very phrase to Rastakhan many times in the past; the humor is not lost on him.

Rastakhan rolls onto his side, propping his chin up on his hand. His softening cock glistens wetly between his legs. Zul experiences a nagging urge to lick it clean.

“I cannot help but notice that you are still clothed, my friend.” says Rastakhan, carefully casual.

Zul hums noncommittally, already certain that he has no intention whatsoever of allowing Rastakhan to see him naked. It is all well and good for Rastakhan to desire Zul's voice, or his teeth, but the fact remains that Zul has the physique of a scholar and Rastakhan has the physique of a god. To invite comparison between them would bring only humiliation.

Rastakhan’s eyes travel downward. The erection lifting Zul’s loincloth is not subtle.

“Do you want-” Rastakhan falters. Zul’s ears lift. “That is, I do not wish to presume, but-”

Oh, how could Zul possibly resist such an invitation?

“Tell me, my king,” says Zul, affecting an attitude of utmost unconcern, “have you ever sucked a man’s cock?”

There is something extremely gratifying about the way Rastakhan’s mouth drops open.

The immediate chorus of _“oooooh”_ from the surrounding concubines diminishes the effect somewhat.

“I did not ask for your commentary, lovely women.” says Rastakhan, mock-stern. A few of them laugh.

Rastakhan pushes himself up onto all fours, shifting to kneel before Zul with the sinuous grace of a jungle cat. He looks like an illustration from one of those particularly salacious scrolls that Zul used to keep hidden under his bedroll when he was a youth. Zul spreads his legs and leans back, feeling a well-hidden frisson of trepidation crawl up his spine. Taking Rastakhan apart in front of an audience is one thing, but Zul allowing _himself_ to be so observed has an uncomfortable quality of vulnerability to it.

It does not help that the audience is so...enthusiastic. The concubines are already calling out _suggestions_.

“Pull his hair, Zul!”

“Do not forget to cover your teeth, my king!”

“Take it slow, your majesty, you do not want to choke!”

Zul purses his lips disapprovingly. Rastakhan ducks his head, looking like he doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh or bury his face in his hands. Fortunately, Janna is quick to come to their rescue.

“Do not tease him, girls! Can you not see that he is shy?”

Zul chooses to believe that she is referring to Rastakhan. There is a subdued flurry of grumbling and shuffling as the concubines turn away and find other things to occupy their attention. Zul has no doubt that most of them are still stealing glances in the king’s direction, but he appreciates the pretense of privacy.

It is an immeasurable relief when Zul finally pushes his loincloth aside and pulls his cock from the damp confines of his loin-wrap. He has been hovering in a state of feverish arousal for far too long; matters are starting to progress from excitement to discomfort.

(Zul is going to have to burn this entire garment. He does not want to think what rumors will start circulating the palace if he allows the servants to launder it as usual.)

Rastakhan is regarding Zul’s cock with the kind of keen intensity he usually reserves for an exceptionally succulent cut of meat at a royal feast. Zul finds himself hoping that the king took to heart the concubine girl’s advice about _teeth_.

And then Rastakhan is leaning forward, his lips parting, and suddenly Zul is incapable of thinking about anything at all.

Zul has always been all too aware of how very _large_ Rastakhan is, how he so thoroughly cows other, lesser trolls through the sheer force of his presence, _how he looms over Zul_ \- but somehow,  _somehow_ he has never extrapolated that the king would have the ability to engulf the entirety of Zul’s cock in his mouth with no apparent difficulty.

This has been an egregious oversight on Zul's part. He has no doubt that this incredibly interesting fact will feature heavily in his nighttime fantasies from this day forward.

Zul finds that he cannot possibly remain sitting up. He falls back, writhing, and cries out involuntarily when huge, calloused hands find his hips and pin them effortlessly down. Rastakhan applies himself to his task with more enthusiasm than skill, but Zul can find absolutely nothing to criticize about his technique - the warm swirl of his tongue, the husky vibration of his purr, the way the curve of his tusks brushes Zul’s thighs with every bob of his head.

Zul is, in fact, praying to every god and spirit he knows to help him withstand it just a moment longer, please, _please,_ unable to spare a single thought towards the fact that he is making an utter spectacle of himself, keening and clawing the bedsheets and biting his lip bloody.

With great effort, Zul forces his eyes open and looks down. The sight of Rastakhan on his hands and knees, his eyes half-lidded, his head bowed as if in genuflection, is _intoxicating._ It is like nothing Zul has ever experienced - no awkward fumblings in the dark with other apprentices, no abysmal quickly-abandoned attempts at courting a suitable wife, no hurried, businesslike exchanges with Yazma could ever compare.

The king looks _humbled_. He is bent to the task with complete focus, as though he is savoring every moment, as though he thinks of nothing save Zul’s pleasure.

That is the last thought to enter Zul’s mind before he is, to use Janna’s phrasing, _pushed off the cliff._

It seems like an eternity before Zul regains the ability to _breathe_ , let alone speak. He opens his eyes to the sight of Rastakhan lying beside him with his head propped up on his hand, looking far too smug for Zul’s tastes. Zul glares balefully at him, very aware that his traitorous milk-pale skin is doing absolutely nothing to conceal the hot rush of blood to his face.

“I do not,” Zul pants, “want to hear a _single word_ from _any of you_ about my _stamina.”_

“Of course not, my friend.” Rastakhan murmurs placatingly.

“I do not have concubines- I am not _accustomed-_ ”

The sensation of Rastakhan butting his nose up under Zul’s chin and crooning appeasement at him does much to assuage Zul’s pride. Zul cannot muster the energy to do more than mouth gently at the king’s face, but Rastakhan does him the courtesy of rumbling as sweetly as though it were a real dominance bite. Small mercies.

“So, my _loyal Prophet Zul,”_ says Rastakhan, gazing up at Zul with a wholly unconvincing expression of innocence, “am I forgiven for my many years of foolishness?”

Zul hums thoughtfully. He feels the king’s erection, already back in full force, brush hotly against his leg.

“Well, _God_ _King Rastakhan,_ ” he says slowly, enjoying the way the king’s eyes widen fractionally at the use of his full formal title, “I believe you and I have a lot of catching up to do.”

(Someone, somewhere cheers.)


End file.
